Mercy in the Stillness
Most of you know this about me — I heal, dream, live, and breathe through writing. It’s how God and I talk. It’s how I work through the deep places of life. So am I surprised that, on a quiet winter morning like this, He would gently meet me again right here? Not really.
Wrapped in a blanket, coffee in hand, I settled into my usual quiet place — the one where God and I talk. Outside, the world had slowed under snow and ice. Inside, everything felt still enough to listen.
And in that stillness… God met me there.
Mercy in the Stillness
This morning feels different.
Only days ago, the sounds outside my window were constant — engines passing, doors opening and closing, the low hum of people moving through busy lives and full schedules. Then the storm came. We all know how quickly life can move… until something slows it all at once.
Snow and ice arrived quietly, without asking permission, and wrapped our little corner of Middle Tennessee in stillness. What once felt hurried now feels hushed. Almost holy. It is the kind of quiet that makes you notice what you’ve been rushing past.
I’m sitting in my chair by the window, coffee warming my hands, watching a winter wonderland unfold. A dangerously thick layer of ice rests on top of fresh snow, heavy enough to pull long tree limbs toward the ground. Some bend low. Some crack beneath the weight. Each sharp sound makes me pause — a reminder that even strong things must sometimes yield. And maybe, if we’re honest, we recognize ourselves there too.
Just beyond the glass, a small bird feeder hangs. The tiniest birds flutter in and out, trusting there will be enough. They don’t rush. They don’t hoard. They simply come, receive, and rest. There is something sacred in that kind of trust.
Inside, the house is warm. The lights are still on.
Our power has stayed on — and I do not overlook that mercy. Because we know how easily this moment could look different.
I know how quickly comfort can shift into concern. So this morning, I choose not to rush past gratitude. I sit with it. I receive it. Sometimes gratitude is simply staying still long enough to notice.
“Through the Lord’s mercies we are not consumed,
Because His compassions fail not.
They are new every morning;
Great is Your faithfulness.”
Lamentations 3:22–23 (NKJV)
As I look around, restoration is happening here too — not through tearing down walls, but through thoughtful, intentional change. The kind of change that happens slowly, with care.
Counters have been rearranged. An island has been added. New lights are ready to glow. A backsplash waits its turn. Cabinets are being lovingly re-stained. And at the heart of it all sits a piece of furniture we found at an estate sale — worn with character, rich in detail — a piece we felt drawn to from the start. Repurposed, it will become the focal point of our kitchen. A place that will hold stories of fellowship. A gathering place for laughter and tears, conversation and prayer — real life shared around a table. Because the most important spaces are the ones where life is lived together.
This home has held us for nine years now. It has known celebration and sorrow. It has sheltered us through storms. It has heard whispered prayers and witnessed a love and commitment that has grown deeper with time. It is becoming, slowly and faithfully, what God would have it be — a home that will one day echo with the footsteps of little feet as we are blessed with more grandchildren. Homes remember. And so do hearts.
Prayerfully, a love that will affect both of our generations for generations to come. Because love is the only thing we take with us when we go — and the only thing of lasting value we leave behind. The lives we touch and the love we give are what our children and grandchildren will carry forward long after we are gone.
This life, and this home, have taken turns neither one of us expected years ago. It looks different than either of us imagined. And though there are moments that cause us to look back and wonder at the path that brought us here, today I am simply grateful. Grateful for where God has carried us — even when the road surprised us.
Grateful for a season where I can sit by a window, write these words, and feel safe — emotionally steady, deeply at peace, and more in love with God than I have ever been. Grateful for a home that has seen us grow — in our relationship with one another and in our commitment to God. There is a quiet holiness in realizing how far you’ve come.
God has asked us to love like Jesus. To offer mercy and grace — sometimes before it’s even recognized as such. To keep walking forward, trusting that strength comes not from ourselves, but from Him.
“I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.”
Philippians 4:13 (NKJV)
Outside, the trees bow low under the weight of ice.
Inside, my heart feels steady. And maybe yours does too, even just a little.
And in the hush of this winter morning, I’m reminded again — God’s mercy doesn’t always roar.
Sometimes it settles softly… like snow.
A Prayer
Lord,
Thank You for mercy we might have overlooked
if the world had not slowed us down.
Thank You for provision, for warmth, for light,
and for the quiet ways You remind us that You are near.
Thank You for the homes You entrust to us —
for the walls that shelter us,
and for the hearts that gather within them.
Teach us to build more than rooms and tables,
to build love that will be carried forward
by our children and our children’s children.
Help us remember that love is the only thing
we take with us when we go,
and the greatest treasure we leave behind.
May the lives we touch and the love we give
become a legacy of grace, faith, and mercy
for generations to come.
As You continue to restore and reshape us,
teach us to love like Jesus —
freely, generously, and without condition.
And when the weight feels heavy,
remind us that our strength comes from You alone.
Amen.
With devotion from my quiet corner,
Marie
(When you pray this for yourself, feel free to make it your own — and sign your own name at the end as a reminder that God’s promises are personal to you.)
